


The Herald and the Inquisitor

by dearcaspian, LittleAprilFlowers



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Exalted Plains, Helpful Cole (Dragon Age), Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Solas is Fen'Harel, dalish lullaby, the veil is thin here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-03-24 00:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13799823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcaspian/pseuds/dearcaspian, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAprilFlowers/pseuds/LittleAprilFlowers
Summary: Canon divergence, where two elves sent to spy on the Conclave and both survive the blast. Written by myself (ferelden-loser on Tumblr) and my co-author Lee (dearcaspian on Archive, thursdaysshepard on Tumblr).One is marked with the Anchor and becomes a beacon of faith across Thedas - the Herald of Andraste. The other swears to fight for his clanmate's cause and becomes Inquisitor, leader of a fabled force for change. Though their Dalish background and firm attitudes may cause some to dismiss them as heretics, or little more than elven rebels, Mahinnah and Arahiel Lavellan are determined to bring Thedas back from the brink or die trying.These chapters will not be in chronological order, as we write them as we go. But we hope you enjoy!





	1. Fireside

The clan they had found past the outskirts of the Exalted Plains was far more approachable than anyone had been expecting. Dalish here tended to keep to themselves, Mahinnah told the Inquisition. In a place so crowded with history, most of it tainted by anguish, many of the elves still couldn’t see beyond the ghosts of Orlais’ long-gone march. Bitterness lacing the infrequent transactions of elves and shemlens was not uncommon across the scarred landscape. In recent years fewer Dalish wandered the Plains in favor of lands with more profitable resources; those who stayed here were hardened, their trust not easily given.

It had taken months of careful approach to win the acceptance and eventual admiration of the clan. Small favors led to bigger endeavours in an effort to prove reliable. After a time, the approach of their party would be met with a welcoming gleam in the eye of the clan’s Keeper. There was little motive to their interactions, save for a chance to forge new connections where none had been in such a long while.

Mahinnah and Arahiel saw it was a chance to breathe easy among familiar settings for the first time in just over a year. The human’s Herald and their army’s Inquisitor were not regarded so highly in the beginning, but stilted honorifics gave way to softer adorations in the elvish tongue after a time. The clan wasn’t as large as the one they knew best, yet it still felt homely.

Some weeks after the final foray into the abandoned forts of the dead, the party were nursing new wounds around the Dalish campfire. The corpses they had fought were not the only concern. Bands of Freemen still roamed the Plains, apparently having nothing better to do than attack whatever and whoever they came across. A surprise ambush of eleven to four had left them all in a sour - but otherwise glad to be alive - mood.

Mahinnah takes a sweeping look around as he slips between the aravels. The sun is finally beginning to set overhead. A pleasant smell of something unidentifiable cooking in the near distance fills the air. At this point, it could be roast mabari and he’d still eat it.

“Lethallin.” he says quietly as he approaches Arahiel and the others around the fire. He sits gingery on the earth beside his clan mate, favoring his left shoulder. Healing magics from the Keeper here had taken most of the sting away but a dull ache lingered.

“Still won’t let you take that off?” he says, gesturing to Arahiel’s face with a poorly concealed smile. A bandage wrapped around the other’s head, covering most of one eye, definitely should not have looked as funny as it did, especially when the vision of Arahiel getting whacked in the face with a blunt club was fresh in his mind.

Arahiel hums, adjusting the wrapping where it’s clearly annoying him. “Awful lot of fuss over a little head wound. I’ve done worse to myself sparring. Still, it would have hit Varric if I hadn’t leapt in, heroically as always.”

“I appreciate it, Snowflake.” The dwarf himself replies, looking up from a letter in his lap, from the Merchant’s Guild probably, or one of Hawke’s other associates.

Arahiel shifts his gaze from Varric to Mahinnah, smiling warmly, even though only one eye is visible in the expression. “How’s your arm, da’len? Has the bruising gone down any?”

“Greatly,” he says, thankful. “It’s a shame Varric had to be the dwarf in distress, otherwise you could have leapt heroically in for my sake.”

Varric grunts in disapproval, though a smile flickers about his face in the firelight. 

“I would argue our Inquisitor’s leap could be viewed as reckless,” Dorian says from the otherside of the circle. He sits with his staff across his lap, an assortment of books beside him. No one could quite gather where exactly they had been procured from.

“Then again,” he adds cheerily, “recklessness only adds to the odd charm you Southerners seem to have.”

Mahinnah rubs his arm, glancing away from Dorian’s not so discreet wink. 

“You should be more careful, you know.” he says to Arahiel. His concern was not reproachful, but still plain to see.

“Don’t you worry, Hinnah. I’m made of sterner stuff than most - namely our squishy, though undoubtedly attractive, northern companion.” Arahiel replies, grinning back at Dorian playfully, “Besides, as long as there is a Herald to serve and an ancient blighted magister to overcome, I’ll be around. That’s what necromancy is for, after all.”

“I’d rather it didn’t come to that. After a while you’d start to smell dreadful.” Dorian says, cringing at the thought.

“And you wouldn’t be nearly as charming with half of your face starting to rot away, Inquisitor.” Varric chips in as he adjusts the reading glasses on the end of his nose.

Cassandra makes a quiet noise of disgust as she nears the fire. “Must you all be so morbid? I’d rather avoid conversation of death, even if only for a while. We did well today; we must remember that.”

“Our Lady Seeker is right, as always.” Arahiel agrees, smiling with delight as a blush fills her sharp cheeks. “We did very well indeed. The Freemen are starting to hold back. We’ll teach them not to mess with the Dalish, or the Inquisition. Or in our case - both.”

“I feel a little guilty.” Cassandra admits, “If I had been there to help—“

“Nonsense.” Arahiel insists, “We left you to defend the clan. You did just that, and quite impressively. The Keeper has assured me that they’ve never felt so safe, even surrounded by shems.”

He casts a mischievous look at Mahinnah; somehow referring to humans as shemlens to their face always gave him some kind of childish thrill, like cursing had done for them both as young boys.

“ _ Easy _ ,” Mahinnah leans in to whisper in elven, his humor obvious. “ _ Cassandra still takes some strange offense to that one _ .”

“Not so much anymore,” Dorian says with a lazy flip through the pages of one of his books. 

In the odd silence that follows, Mahiannah stares, incredulous, across the circle. 

“You’ve learned elven?”

“Learning,” Dorian corrects with a snort. “How else am I to keep up with Andraste’s Herald and Inquisitor in all their adventures if I can’t eavesdrop on their little private conversations?”

He leans up to accept a small bowl of steaming stew, offered by a younger elf. Amidst the small circles clustered throughout the camp other members of the clan were distributing dinner among themselves.

“I’m full of many marvelous and hidden talents,” Dorian adds, raising a brow as he takes a sip of the stew.

Mahinnah accepts two bowls for himself and Arahiel to the tune of Cassandra’s quiet, disgusted huff.

The conversation comes to a companionable lull as they each focus in on their food. The warmth seems to settle into Mahinnah’s skin, easing some of the soreness from earlier, and the taste is simple but familiar. After meetings with dukes and the associated feasts therein, or bare rations foraged from fruitless battlefields, he had begun to miss flavors like this, of home.

Around the camp the overall noise begins to fall as well. Everyone was enjoying the meal in earnest; save for two small figures at the edge of the furthest campfire, sequestered off in the fading light. Curious, Mahinnah gently bumps his arm against Arahiel’s, motioning in their direction.

A human or dwarf would perhaps have to squint in the dark to make out the figures, but elves with Ari and Hinnah’s keen eyes saw more than others. The two people are different in size on further examination; a mother and a child, it seems. The young boy, sits sniffing at his mother’s side as she strokes his hair, their still-steaming bowls of stew forgotten momentarily.

It is not immediately audible, but it soon becomes clear that the boy’s mother is humming a lullaby under her breath as she caresses her child’s head tenderly. The boy stops sniffing and leans into his mother where they sit away from the clan’s fire. As Arahiel and Mahinnah watch on, experiencing a strange familiarity from this exact scene, more mothers drift from the glow of the flames to the shadowy spot away from them. Following them are children, mostly young girls; daughters and sisters. That’s when the voices lift through the dark, reaching the ears of those seated at the fire in a haunting, soothing choir.

Arahiel goes rigid as Mahinnah’s body shrugs into relaxation, his head turning from the sight of the clan singing their soothing lullaby to the glowing embers at the base of the crackling fire. His uncovered brown eye stares, unseeing and unfocused, his mind lost in the rising voices of the clan.

Countless years, it seemed, had passed since they last heard that song. It was old, but not uncommon. Mahinnah could remember his own mother singing it to him during moments like these, past sunsets and calm nights he could no longer visualize with any perfect clarity. Nostalgia runs deep in the pained look he hides behind a quiet dip of his head. The ancient words come easily to his lips, but this moment doesn’t belong to him, and he restrains them in favor of listening without interruption. 

Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian watch with interest, eyes narrowed as they peer through the evening dusk. Cassandra looks strangely touched as the chorus progresses, such a soft expression rarely seen on her features. Varric sits completely still, another rarity in itself. He faces away from the gathering, a curious smile barely visible in the low light. 

Dorian stares neither at the clan nor towards the fire; he meets Mahinnah’s gaze instead, both wondering and reverent. On any other man, one might have called it humility.

It takes a long moment for him to look away.

“Ari.” Mahinnah says softly, the nickname almost unfamiliar for how long it had gone unused aloud, “I’d almost forgotten what that lullaby sounded like.”

“So had I.” he replies, barely more than a whisper, his focus still lost in the base of the fire. He no longer felt comfort from the warmth of its flames. Instead visions came to him - a sight he knows he could not remember, of burning aravels, the heat of vicious and unforgiving fire. The screaming and crying of innocent elves rattles around in his brain, and somewhere among it all, a woman’s voice that he is sure he knows echoing the self-same words of the lullaby, like a mourning spirit wailing over the site of a massacre.

Arahiel is overwhelmed by the sudden urge to get away, before this strange pseudo-memory consumed him. His stew flies from his lap as he suddenly stands and marches away. He has no direct goal from this point; nearby the rushing of a river calls to him. The water is shallow - the Plains have a longer dry season than most temperate areas in Orlais - but he wades in until the water laps at his knees, his bare feet consumed in the icy dark stream.

Voices call for him, urging him back, but he ignores them. Conflicting desire gnaws at him; one half of his brain clutches to these parts that he thinks is memory, and the other forces it away out of his reach, begging him not to go near, almost in the sound of Istimaethoriel’s own voice when she was younger, when she used to plead for Arahiel to concentrate or behave…

In frustration, Arahiel yells and kicks the water. The camp behind him falls silent. Many stare on at him, and he can feel the weight of their gaze on his back like the survivor’s guilt he had almost forgotten which now bares down on him all at once.

It is Cassandra who reacts first, rising from the fire, her own stew forgotten and going cold at her feet. Across the way Mahinnah sees her fingers flicker instinctively towards her side where a sword is not currently present, as if the cool touch of a weapon would allow her some means to fix whatever is wrong. He is familiar with the feeling, as unproductive as it might currently be.

One or two murmured conversations begin to pick up as he stands, holding a placating hand out towards the Seeker. She looks to the lone figure in the water. Confusion echoes through her and in the faces of their other companions, but neither Varric nor Dorian speak. 

After a brief moment of hesitation Cassandra nods and stiffly takes her seat once more, abiding by Mahinnah’s silent request. He mouths a brief  _ ma serannas  _ and begins to pick his way across the landscape towards the water glinting in the rising moonlight. Behind him, he hears the lullaby pick up once more, fainter this time.

Arahiel is still, unmoving as the statues that loom over old Chantry sites in the Emprise. Mahinnah wades through the gentle current to stand beside him, shutting out any lingering eyes of the others following his progress.

“Lethallin?”

“I’m sorry.” Arahiel murmurs, and it’s not immediately clear even to himself if he means those words for Mahinnah. As he turns, his attempt at an embarrassed smile is tampered by the fact that it does not meet his unwounded eye. He drops his head and stares at the ripples around their ankles. They bump and glide over one another, making room for each other. Much like he and the other elf at his side. Accommodating, part of the same whole. It restored the sense of belonging he had lost for a moment.

“It was too much.” he admits as he continues in a lower voice than his apology, so only Mahinnah can hear him. “We used to hear it as children, I know, which ought to have been a good memory. But there was something else, a different version underneath it all. And that, with the fire, and the fighting today, it was just…. too much.”

Arahiel glances up, focusing on his companion now, his expression drawn into a confused and frustrated frown.

“I thought I heard her voice, Hinnah. I thought… I thought I heard my mother. My  _ real _ mother, from before the Lavellan clan found me. Perhaps it’s because the Veil is thin here, but that’s never happened before. It scared me, lethallin.”

_ How could you hear what you hadn’t ever known _ , Mahinnah thinks, but doesn’t dare speak it. Arahiel was a Lavellan in everything but birth and the topic had gone largely undiscussed for most of their lives. There wasn’t anything to discuss, really. Most clans adopted city elves and foreigners often enough for it to become widely accepted without question. Few had circumstances as strange as Arahiel’s, however.

“It’s possible you could have.” he says thoughtfully. “What we know of the Veil encompasses very little of what we could hope to understand.”

He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “What exactly did you hear?”

“Screams.” Arahiel says bluntly, once again not meeting Mahinnah’s eyes, “”The crackling of fire, but not from the camp. I saw burning aravels -- I felt the heat of them on my face. And over all that, just audible in the chaos, a woman’s voice, and that lullaby.”

It sounds ridiculous, he is well aware. After all, even if it was because of some sort of connection to the Fade, Mahinnah was the one with the Anchor. It’s true that Arahiel had felt more connected to the other side of the Veil than he had been aware of before the Conclave, but that didn’t explain his visions. Perhaps he was just tired. The day had been stressful for everyone, for a multitude of reasons. Perhaps it would be best if he just called it a night, settled into his tent to sleep, and see if the vision lingered on him come the morning.

“Solas or Dorian might have a better answer than I.” Mahinnah offers after a long moment of silence. Nothing was worse than the sensation of helplessness, especially when concerning someone close, but he truly could offer little explanation. Shouts through imaginary fire were clouding his conscious. If he listened hard enough, perhaps he would hear the lullaby too.

“I know that probably isn’t helpful,” he adds with a weak smile. “We could always leave in the morning, if you wished? Or now, in fact. The others could catch up with us tomorrow. Unless you’d fancy to see shems blindly following us in the dark?”

Arahiel turns over his shoulder to their friends, who are trying their best - and failing - to not seem as though they are watching on with concern. The frown lines fade from his brow and his expression is replaced with one of amused and grateful appreciation for their fellows. Cassandra had not always looked kindly upon the two of them, but she had grown into a close companion over time. Varric had hit it off with them right away. And then there was the mage Dorian - Mahinnah had found love in this charismatic man, and Arahiel himself a good friend as well.

“No, we’ll stay the night. It’s been a tough mission for everyone. I’ll be alright, da’len.”

He pats Mahinnah reassuringly on the shoulder and leads them both back to the fireside, clearly wearied by his experience but determined as ever to not let the cracks show. They knew the stakes placed on them; any sign of fragility or weakness, even in front of those who did not believe that they were chosen such as the Dalish, could affect the strength of the Inquisition as a symbol for all in times like these. They had to maintain strength and determination, and the dedication of the Inquisition would follow. In time, they might come to believe it of themselves too.


	2. A Helping Hand

“Can you help him?”

The request is halting. Throughout his life he has asked a trifling amount of times for help from others, and vulnerability still tastes a bitter offense on his tongue. It is a strange feeling. These days he understands weakness is only subjective, but at this moment, he has never felt more powerless.

The boy in the door frame shifts. He is almost too tall to fit - his worn hat scrapes the wooden beam above him. 

“I only ask, Cole,” Dorian adds hurriedly, “merely because I know you’ve helped Arahiel once or twice before. He’s mentioned it in passing-”

“That was not help,” Cole interrupts listlessly. “I made a mistake. Attempting the same with him may only make his dreams worse from this point on.”

“Perhaps, but for a little while, he might…” 

Dorian grips the cool, clammy hand slipping sideways out from under the bed sheets. He spares only a glance at Mahinnah. As the days pass, he finds it increasingly difficult to compare the silent form of the man lying unaware beside him to the figure in his head, radiant and teeming with hope. He holds on to that mental image like a beacon, drawing him continuously up and out of the dark.

He blinks, and Cole is standing beside him. There is a strangely regretful slump to his bony shoulders. 

“I know it’s hard to ask,” Cole amends. He stares out the singular window in the room. Late afternoon sun passes determinedly through the thick curtain, leaking fuzzy beams of patchy light across the floor.

“What?”

“Hard to ask for help. I know, and I’m sorry. I could try to ease his sleep, but the dreams will only disappear for a few hours. They could come back stronger than before. It might only hurt him further.”

A rebuttal lingers on Dorian’s lips. He bites it back with a slow head shake.

“Fine. Fine. It’s okay, Cole. Thanks anyways.”

The two descend into a silence leaden with the unsaid. Through the thin walls, distant chatter echoes like an ambient melody. He can’t exactly remember the last time he saw daylight properly, unrushed by quick breaks before stumbling back in, as if a change might have happened in his departure.

There was always someone else present in his temporary absence, watching. Each had their own way of keeping the Herald company, despite the somber knowledge their attempts at conversation would always be one-sided. Leliana delivered reports of the Inquisition’s continued efforts around Thedas, read without much effort. The Iron Bull usually brought a member of the Chargers along to boast about absurd missions they had narrowly escaped in the past. Sera visited rarely, but dragged along anything she could think of when she did: puzzles, scraps of drawings, old books, uneaten cookies and terrible jokes. 

Cassandra was the one typically in Dorian’s place while he was away; she read steadily from shoddy romance novels, tone never wavering, unafraid to gaze at the slumbering ghost. These books were always hidden once Dorian returned. She still believed no one knew.

Golden eyelashes flutter for a brief second, eyes roaming wildly beneath closed lids. Dorian leans over and shifts his hand, thumbing gently at the limp wrist. 

The pulse there is fleeting, a trapped bird’s wing underneath the skin. A moment later and all about Mahinnah is listless again.

“You should rest,” says Cole. “You’ve been here for most of the day. You need to eat.”

“I don’t need to eat,” Dorian protests, ignoring the simultaneous spike of complaint from his empty stomach. 

“Nothing will happen while you’re gone. I’ll watch over him.”

The last full meal he had was days past. Small, harried bites here and there apparently could not sustain a body for long.

Dorian mulls over the tantalizing idea of fresh bread and soup. Mahinnah’s imagined voice surfaces in his mind, a complaint that no one should lose any meals over him.

“Fine,” he agrees. He said that word so often these days, and nothing ever was. “I’ll come back soon.”

Slowly he rises from the bedside, reluctantly letting his hand slip from Mahinnah’s own. He keeps his gaze steadily forward as he crosses, pausing at the door.

“Let me know if anything happens,” is all he asks, before turning the corner and heading out, wincing in the bright light.

It is quiet again for a stretch of empty moments. Cole moves to occupy Dorian’s chair, settling soundlessly down. He does not take Mahinnah’s hand as Dorian had done; rather, he studies the sickly green trailing up his arm, glow pulsing erratically.

“I’m sorry,” he says, a preface. “This might make things worse. I have to try. He loves you alot.”

  
  


_ Mahinnah sits across from Cassandra. A fire in the corner of the tavern burns hot to combat the thickly falling snow outside. Beads of sweat prickle underneath his collar. The two stare at each other unblinking, neither certain what to say first. _

_ “I didn’t mean to-” _

_ “I believe I judged you unfairly-” _

_ They pause in tandem. Mahinnah glances away, awkwardly brushing a few loose strands of hair from his cheek. _

_ “It is understandable,” he interjects carefully, “for you to have considered me the catalyst-” _

_ “But perhaps not so understandable was my inability to see any other outcome than you standing before the courts in Val Royeaux.” _

_ “If I survived that long.” _

_ “If, yes.”  _

_ Cassandra eyes his hands, hidden behind a pair of well tailored gloves. Since the discovery of the mark he had worn them consistently, even when no longer visible in the public eye.  _

_ "To be fair," Mahinnah says, "I was the  _ only  _ survivor. That hardly improved my chances." _

_ "Are you arguing for your own guilt, Lavellan?" _

_ Mahinnah squints in the firelight, uncertain if the question is posed seriously or not.  _

_ "Of course not," he says hesitantly. "It's just that I-" _

_ He trails off with a frustrated sigh. Leaning forward, he rests elbows solemnly on leather-clad knees. To Cassandra, he appears far more tired than he had seconds before. _

_ "It’s just that I understand your suspicions now," he reasons. "I would have been as desperate for answers as you were then. A rift in the sky is unprecedented, but searching for a way to defend those in your care is a universal sentiment." _

_ "I was not... desperate." _

_ "Determined. I can respect determined." _

_ “This matter is not yet settled.” _

_ “We can always argue tomorrow.” _

_ The tension slowly begins to seep out of the weighty air caught between them. In the juncture, Cassandra thanks the young woman who brings them a bowl of soup each with a low murmur of appreciation. She lifts the spoon as soon as the dish touches the table, noting Mahinnah's absent interest in the food. _

_ “You have done an excellent job of surviving so far, considering the circumstances,” she admits, swirling the spoon around in the broth. “I doubt many would be vying for your place right now, regardless of your spreading… recognition throughout Thedas. _

_ The attempt at humor doesn’t slip by unnoticed. _

_ "I didn't ask to be renown," Mahinnah says drily. "Is that almost a compliment, Seeker?" _

_ "No." Cassandra deadpans, focusing intensely on her bowl. "I give compliments only where they are due. It's merely an admiration for your perseverance. Our paths run very near to each other, but even I can't picture myself in your place." _

_ "My place is purely accidental," Mahinnah argues half-heartedly around a taste of the soup. He lowers the spoon, lips twisting in dissatisfaction. "You can have my pedestal, if you like.” _

_ “The Inquisition is beginning to mold itself around you.” Cassandra is almost empathetic, having taken the question literally. “Taking your place would diverge the course of events already set in motion.” _

_“Would you though, if you could?”_ _  
__Cassandra appears startled by the simple question. “What do you mean?”_

_ “The mark, if you could take it. Would you? Cassandra?” _

_ Her mouth opens in response, but no sound comes forth. _

_ “Cassandra?” _

_ She rises in slow motion, eyes dragging listlessly across the tavern towards the door. Mahinnah tries to follow her trajectory but becomes distraught by the sight of everyone else around them. Bodies move as if caught in honey. The amiable background chatter dims as all motion comes to an eerie standstill, faces contorted into frozen masks, limbs held at awkward angles. Mahinnah stands alone, his breath the only sound in the room. _

_ At the entrance, a door once closed and now wide open, sits a wolf. The ebony claws are monstrous - with a gaping yawn its jaws part and nearly cleave its head in half. Soon all Mahinnah can see are teeth coming towards him. _

No, _ whispers a voice.  _ This isn’t right. You’re not supposed to be here.

_ Just inches before the teeth devour him whole, the beast disappears in a burst of black smoke. Mahinnah finds the planks of the floor and a void of dark earth rushing up to meet him. _

 

  
_ "Come on, Hinnah. It’ll be fun.” _

_ He looks up at Arahiel. The other elf has an arm stretched out under the pretense of helping him off the ground. Hinnah doesn’t grasp it; he could get up fine on his own. He knows by now that taking the hand would act solely as an agreement to the proposed adventure. _

_ “The caves are so far, though,” he tries to protest. “We’ve never been out that way.” _

_ “That’s what makes it fun,” Arahiel says. “Just the other day you were saying how bored you were in this part of the Marches.” _

_ It was true, but Mahinnah refuses to acknowledge it on principle. The Clan had been camped in the same place for weeks now, acquiring resources from the land and trading with a small settlement of shemlen nearby. A camp strung out over such a span of weeks wasn’t necessarily uncommon. They had stayed in past locations longer than this one, making homes out of foreign scenery and familiar people, until the supplies began to wane; but restlessness was always inevitable. It usually hit Mahinnah and Arahiel quicker than the rest.  _

_ “What happens if we’re stuck there past sundown?” Hinnah proposes. _

_ “Then we sleep among the giant spiders,” Arahiel responds. _

_ “You know I hate spiders.” _

_ “Come onnn,” he tries again, drawing out the last word with a pout. “There’s no spiders in this part of the Marches. Even if there were, I’d kill them for you.” _

_ “Most are bigger than the both of us combined.” _

_ “Okay, I could kill exactly half of one spider, proportional to my height. You could deal with the other, smaller half.” _

_ The barest of smiles flickers at the corners of Mahinnah’s lips.  _

_ “Think of what we could find,” Arahiel proclaims. He strikes a confident pose, one foot planted atop the wide rock Mahinnah sits upon. “Istamathoriel says no one has explored those caves in her memory. There must be some kind of ancient artifact, or piece of undiscovered lore.” _

_ Hinnah appears to be pondering the possibilities properly now. He sets aside the little block of carved wood, one unfinished leg of a bear just beginning to emerge underneath his carving knife.  _

_ “Can you promise we’ll be back before sundown?” he asks, and casts a worried glance at the main body of the camp in the near distance.  _

_ “We’ll be back before the sun even thinks of setting.” _

_ “You’re too persuasive for your own good.” _

_ “Don’t deny you wanted to go the second I brought it up.” _

_ “I’ll deny it to my grave,” Hinnah says as he hops off the rock. “Where’s your sword?” _

_ Arahiel takes a slow step towards the camp, afraid to allow his excitement full reign in case his friend backed out. “In Istama’s aravel. We can sneak it out, no problem. Where’s your daggers?” _

_ Mahinnah winces. “Father’s tent.” _

_ “You’ve been working on keeping your steps soft, right?” _

_ “But of course. You?” _

_ Within twenty minutes, laden down by swiped weapons and a wrapped parcel of bread, the two young elves dart into the surrounding forest. The towering trees soon swallow them up. _

_ “That was too easy,” Arahiel muses. He brushes a hand against the sword hilt. The weight is a comfort against his hip. “Don’t you think?” _

_ “Either that or we’re very lucky,” Mahinnah offers. His own dual weapons are hidden from view. The twin daggers were less imposing at first glance than the sword, but Arahiel knows they can be just as deadly. _

_ “I don’t believe in luck.” _

_ “I’ll believe in luck for both of us. Where are the caves at exactly?” _

_ The hesitant framing of the question threatens to make Mahinnah sound apprehensive, but Arahiel knows him too well after the years they’ve spent growing up in tandem. He studies the surrounding foliage and steady downward slope of the landscape with a keen eye, eager anticipation present in his quickening pace. That inherent longing for exploration was easy to draw out of him with the right words. _

_ “They’re a little ways ahead. I managed to coax directions out of the storyteller without him realizing exactly what he was telling me.” _

_ “What if we do find ancient artifacts?” Hinnah says as he lifts a branch for Arahiel to pass beneath. “Or lost texts. Or skeletons.” _

_ “We name whatever we find after us, obviously. Don’t scholars have a tendency to do that?” _

_ “Even the skeletons?” _

_ “Yes. Are you looking out for spiders?” Arahiel teases. _

_ “I never stop looking out.” _

_ The caves appear soon enough. Above them the sun leans to the west, merciless heat settling into a wearied warmth. Mahinnah and Arahiel stop at the entrance, each quietly surveying the wide mouth before them. Light permeates just a few feet into the tunnel. Everything beyond is cloaked in heavy blackness. _

_ Arahiel rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Huh. I remember this being described as… a lot larger.” _

_ “It’s intimidating all the same,” Mahinnah says, unafraid to admit it. He takes a step closer and attempts to peer past the dark of the mouth.  _

_ “I’ll give you that one.” _

_ They share a glance, grinning broadly.  _

_ “Ready to go?” Arahiel asks. He makes as if to unsheathe his sword, fearlessly prepared for what dangers they might face ahead.  _

_ “Lead the way, oh courageous warrior,” Mahinnah answers. He gestures grandly towards the entrance and turns to follow, but Arahiel does not move. _

_ “Mahinnah,” he whispers, voice suddenly tight in his throat. “Look.” _

_ At the lip of the cave sits a mass of shifting black smoke. The gigantic head and body of a creature standing within are just visible through the thick haze. They hear the scratch of sharp claws carving lines into the rock before they see the legs emerge, encased in ragged fur, thicker than the waist of a grown shem. A wolf’s head looms out of the blackness, many red eyes focusing directly in on the two elves frozen in place mere feet away. _

_ It’s jaw opens, exposing glittering teeth. Mahinnah instinctively places himself in front of Arahiel, too motivated by fear to realize Arahiel wasn’t moving still. The knives are already in his quivering hands. _

_ “Ari,” he whispers, “your sword?” _

_ Arahiel lifts an arm and forcibly pushes Hinnah aside.  _

_ “Ari, wait! What are you doing?” _

_ He watches helplessly as Arahiel starts to pace forward, expressionless and stiff, as if under a spell. The creature sniffs the air, great head unmoving. Each rapid beat of Hinnah’s heart is timed to a half-step Arahiel takes further into the creature’s reach. _

_ “Ari!” _

_ The forest comes undone at the edges all around. Trees dissolve into ash, taking the crumbling landscape with them, leaving a white expanse as far as he can see in its place. _

This was a good memory. You’re not supposed to be here! _says a voice, and in a wink Mahinnah vanishes from the site._

  
  
  


_ His head aches as he watches the mage pace to and fro. It is the inevitable result of a long day spent traipsing the final leg back from the Hinterlands, but it isn’t enough to truly bother him. Other things ache which nag at the back of his mind. Since stepping over the ancient bridge to Skyhold, his hand had been twinging in a continuous, unidentifiable discomfort all evening. _

_ “And another thing,” Dorian says, angrily shelving a book back into its proper place, “Maevaris mentioned the Magisterium was actually considering to move forward with the debate!”  _

_ His sarcasm is palpable. “As if it’s a debate in any sense of the word. I know exactly who is going to argue for which side, and their opinions will plow right over those of the common folk. Nothing will be taken into consideration, except for what they want to hear.” _

_ Dorian sighs and uncrosses his arms. Mahinnah feels a sharp twinge of sympathy. He couldn’t personally relate to the ongoing scandals of Tevinter life past a certain point, but understood this particular situation likely meant well for no one. _

_ “It’s ridiculous,” Dorian says. “And I am… concerned. There is so much potential in what Maevaris initially proposed, but the Magisterium twisted her ideas and now they’re determined to inflict more damage on themselves.” _

_ Mahinnah lends him a sad smile. “Amatus, I truly am sorry.” _

_ Dorian grumbles. “Don’t steal my pet names, ma vhenan.” _

_ The gentle ripple of laughter in answer coaxes an amused huff out of him. “It’s just frustrating,” Dorian says. “And I am tired, and could use a decent distraction because I don’t care to think about this anymore.” _

_ Mahinnah nudges him over to the chair by the window. “We could criticise the techniques of the soldiers practicing in the courtyard ring down below.” _

_ “We did that yesterday,” Dorian reminds him as he takes a seat. Mahinnah joins him soon after, curling sideways in Dorian’s lap with his legs thrown over the armrest.  _

_ “Oh, right.” _

_ “I do hope no one passes by,” says Dorian idly, twisting a lock of Hinnah’s hair between his fingers. “Pity anyone should be witness to the Inquisitor coiled up like a cat on the lap of a Tevinter pariah. Think of the rumors.” _

_ “I’m pretty sure everyone knows by now,” Mahinnah chastises. He tilts his head up in anticipation of a surely imminent kiss. Dorian quickly obliges, soft lips chaste. _

_ “What would you like to do?” Hinnah asks. “We have a wealth of possibilities.” _

_ “Oh? Is that a promise?” Dorian teases. “Is this what the Inquisitor has to offer to all his lovers - a world ripe with adventure?” _

_ “Only the good ones.” The retort is nearly cut off by a yawn. _

_ “I have an idea to benefit us both,” Dorian suggests. He settles down a little lower, one arm curving around Mahinnah’s waist. _

_ “What would that be?” _

_ Dorian places a palm against Mahinnah’s temple. A faint tingle of magic buzzes on his skin. Seconds later, the pain throbbing in his skull vanishes without a trace.  _

_ “We stay here until Thedas freezes over,” he says. “I’m quite comfortable. I’d worry my limbs would fall asleep, but you barely weigh enough to make a dent on anything.” _

_ “You’re only getting away with that because you healed my headache,” Mahinnah mumbles sleepily against his shoulder. “And, deal.” _

Good, _ says the whisper in his ear as he drifts off.  _ You’re happy here. Don’t worry. I’m helping. Let’s try for another.”

 

  
The Inquisitor’s unconscious mind drifts from memory to memory, each slightly colored by minuscule variations too indistinct to notice the difference. Sometimes the jump between recollections is jarring: a line splits the center of two disconnected thoughts and he is shoved abruptly over it, separate worlds blurring clumsily together. Those tend to break apart not long after he strays into them, angry red eyes and teeth inevitably piercing the seams. For others, he is carried tenderly among the muffling folds of sweeter moments remembered. A murmur follows him down every path dark or familiar, constantly reassuring and consoling in turn. 

He sees Varric examining an outcrop of red lyrium, hands wringing together behind his back. Mahinnah knows some of the truth beyond what had been embellished in the Tale of the Champion. It couldn’t have been easy to stumble upon the tainted stone all over Thedas, considering it was a key component of what had almost destroyed Kirkwall; but Varric was handling it admirably aside from what little glances into his psyche Mahinnah had been privy to. He watches as Varric laughs, threatens to kick the shit out of the glowing spike jutting forth from the snow, turns grim when Bull hands him a hammer. “Let’s get to work,” he says, knocking off a chunk in one swift blow. Shards land in a puff of freshly fallen powder, their color fading to a dull flicker. “No more templars for you to taint now, huh?”

He sees that same fresh powder as an unfathomable hurdle to cross. Mountains leer above, their dark shapes blotted out by the storm everywhere he can look on the horizon. A searing chill burns in his bones. Wind whips against his skin, exposed by rips and jagged tears along his clothes where the battle at Haven had tried to pull him apart. Misery had never felt so sickening. If he manages to come out of this alive, manages to find Haven’s survivors he swears to take Arahiel and leave for good, damn these shemlens and their hole in the sky, damn Thedas and the pain eating into his glowing hand, damn his hope colder than the campfires he crawls past dotting the mountainside, oh, they have to be here somewhere-

He sees blood drip from a wound on the knuckles of a soldier. The man laughs it off, graciously accepting a handkerchief to clean away the red, and gets back to work. There is a line of refugees and willing volunteers along the ramparts, smoothing fresh stone into place where time had displaced the fortress walls. A bright afternoon frames them all gallantly against the cloudless sky. Josie comes to stand next to him and looks up, unabashedly proud. “They were all so eager to help,” she tells him. “No grand speeches were necessary to persuade them. Everyone seems to want a piece of forming the Inquisition’s foundations, literal or no. You have good men beneath you, Your Worship.”

He sees Sera and Thom embracing across the Winter Palace grounds. There is Corypheus, framed in the red light of his recurring nightmares. The Emerald Graves follows, a glimpse of a bolting august ram and a breath of fresh air before the caves of the Storm Coast drown it out. He stands by in silence as Cassandra tells him about her brother, Dorian curses his father, Sera gives him a cookie too blackened to eat. Waves upon waves of conversations swallowed up in the past pour over him until he struggles to swim, burdened beneath every choice, haunted by every mistake. 

He sees Vivienne weeping quietly over her dead lover after he leaves the room. He sees sweat beading on Cullen’s brow as he hurls a vial of lyrium against the wall. He listens to the ghosts he couldn’t save in Haven berate him in the night, listens to the crunch of bone as templar after templar fall under his dagger, listens to the remembered echoes of his own ragged screams while mages usher him down into a magicked sleep, temporarily safe from the pain in his palm, unable to see how the green spreads web-like up his arm-

He sees the wolf in their last encounter, many eyes bright, driven by a mistaken desire to irrevocably alter the state of the world. 

_ No, no, you’re starting to waver again _ , warns that voice.  _ Let’s find one final happy one. You have to trust me. I’ve trusted you for a long while. I’ll keep you there until it’s time, I promise.  _

 

  
_ Mahinnah slaps his cards on the table. “Are you sure you want to know?” _

_ Varric leans heavily on both elbows and nods. His crafty grin reveals nothing of the cards he holds aloft. _

_ “Story time, Inquisitor,” he says, flipping his cards to and fro, just quickly enough for Mahinnah to miss the opportunity for a peek each time he does. “And quit trying to look at my hand.” _

_ “You’re tempting me and you know it,” Mahinnah laughs. “If I hadn’t made myself into a sanctum of honesty, I would cheat.”  _

_ Blackwall snorts. “Are you telling me you’ve never cheated?” he exclaims two seats down. _

_ “I find that hard to believe,” echoes Josephine, posture noticeably less dainty than how she usually holds herself. Likely this is due to the half-empty mug beside her stack of cards. Her lowered inhibitions had delighted everyone for the past hour. _

_ “I know for a fact you’ve cheated on many occasions,” Dorian says. “There’s no way you could have won at chess that many times against me.” _

_ “No, it’s true,” says Arahiel. He elbows Mahinnah in the ribs. “He’s never cheated at anything, except Wicked Grace.” _

_ “Dorian, I’m wounded,” Mahinnah claims. He places a palm flat on his chest, feigning disappointment. “I’m simply a chess master, second only to Ari.” _

_ “If you’re wounded then I am ground nug,” Dorian chuckles. “I demand a rematch sometime soon.” _

_ “You’re on, dear heart.” _

_ “It’s not a true game without more than half the participants trying to cheat,” Bull says. He raises his cards over his head. Sera grumbles next to him and crosses her arms, attempts at spying dashed. _

_ “I still don’t understand how this game is supposed to work,” Cassandra mutters. “Cullen, you promised to teach me earlier.” _

_ “Soldiers won’t train themselves, Seeker. Unfortunately.” _

_ Varric lays down his hand, eliciting a collective groan from around the table. He cheerfully scoops a pile of coins towards him which had been slowly growing since the start. In the light of the tavern’s fire, his grin turns positively diabolical. _

_ “We’re getting away from my original point,” Varric says. “You promised us a story.” _

_ “I promised nothing,” Mahinnah snorts. “You’ve been trying to coax one out of me.” _

_ “Yes, but you’re good at it, and you asked us if we were certain we wished to know.” _

_ “I was hoping you’d say no.” _

_ Cullen fixes Mahinnah with a mischievous glance across the table. “I think I speak on behalf of the group when I say we all want to know, Herald.” _

_ Hinnah sighs in surrender. “Fine, fine. Ari, would you care to start? It’s as much your story as mine.” _

_ Arahiel leans back in his chair, expertly shuffling his cards. The two know they have an audience now, the game momentarily abandoned - and Mahinnah knows, affectionate and proud, that Arahiel plans to astound said audience for all he’s worth.  _

_ “It began with a curse, millenia ago,” Arahiel starts off, lowering his voice. The others lean forward in anticipation. “And it ends with Mahinnah and I running naked for our lives right through a shemlen birthday party.” _

_ “Naked?” Josephine exclaims. “How did you lose your clothes?” _

_ Arahiel waves a dismissive hand. “I’m getting there. Now, listen carefully, because I’m only going to tell this once, unless Varric wants to take notes for everyone later.” _

_ “I’m already on it, Snowflake.” _

_ Rounds of shared laughter decorate the long hours of evening until night comes around. Mahinnah, leaning slightly tipsy on Arahiel in the next chair, surrounded by friends he could not picture himself without and warmed by the drowsy fire, feels a sense of awed contentment deeper than he could have predicted at the Inquisition’s start.  _

_ Dangers beyond comprehension lay in wait, but he couldn’t go back from here. He wouldn’t want to. This path was his own now, and he intended to make it the right one. _

There you go. Safe, happy,  _ Cole murmurs.  _ You can stay here if you want. I did my best. I hope I helped.

 

 

Dorian comes back as the sun sets below the mountains. A full meal for the first time in days had renewed his waning energy. Once the threat of the hole in the sky was over he vowed to kiss every cook Skyhold had ever employed.

Cole remains much the same as Dorian had left him. He sits beside the bed, narrow elbows resting on gangly knees. His hat was laid aside on the floor. Dorian stares from the doorframe, unused to seeing the limp blonde hair of Cole’s uncovered head.

“Any change?” he asks. Cole’s answer dashes what little hope had surfaced in his absence.

“No,” the spirit says. “Not really. He’s stopped shifting in his sleep. See? Peaceful.”

Dorian takes a careful seat on the bedside opposite Cole, afraid to jostle the slumbering Herald. He checks the pulse again, surprised at how evenly it beats against his touch compared to before.

“I’ve been telling him stories,” Cole says. “Kind of. Or, he told them, and I made sure he picked the right ones.”

“Stories?”

“Bits of memories, pieces of the past. Someone was trying to herd him into the bad ones. I’ve been trying to keep him in the light.”

Dorian’s brows shoot up. “You… helped?” he exclaims. “I thought you said-”

Cole is already standing, hat back on. “He should be okay for a while,” he tells Dorian. “He’ll have to wake up eventually, you know, once we know what to do.”

“Yes.” Dorian bows his head. “I’m aware.”

The gentle press of a hand on his shoulder is too quick to fully process. Dorian blinks, and Cole is at the door.  

“I’ll come back,” he says. “You should sleep, too. No one will bother you in here, if you want.”

“Thank you, Cole,” Dorian murmurs. “Truly.”

But the spirit is gone.

Dorian turns his focus back to the cot. “You’ve made some strange friends,” he wonders aloud to Mahinnah. “We both have, I suppose. I’m glad you draw them in the way you do”

He lets out a lackluster sigh.

“Always like you to sleep through the storm,” Dorian softly scolds. “Lucky you have me to look out for you. A whole host of us, actually. Hang in there, as you Southerners say. We’re going to figure this out, Hinnah.”

Dorian holds his hand. No answer comes, but the look of peace resting upon Mahinnah’s brow is enough. 


End file.
